Who the bloody hell -
by GraceEliz
Summary: Alfred Pennyworth is in a kitchen he doesn't recognise, surrounded by what appear to be vigilantes. Duke heaves a sigh at the sight. It's just one of those magic heckery days, huh.


_Alfred centric this time! I've been working on this a while, actually. This is to fill the prompt "deaging". _

_TTags: magic, violent backstories, no actual story violence, references to spy work and assassination etc, tea, knitting _

The oddest thing about magic, Duke noticed, was that it only ever followed a pattern when it logically shouldn't. Even when certain magicks tasted the same, the effects they had could differ in ways even he had no idea of. What caused these disparities? The caster's intention? The receptor?

Tonight's shenanigan of choice was a prime example of the peculiarities of magic: back when Damian had been de-aged he'd been sent into the body of a baby, and Bruce into a mostly-functional if somewhat dippy teen, and so they'd reckoned that deaging spells seemed to send you to a happier time.

Of course, then Dick had been de-aged by only six weeks, and Tim had lost a year, and Jason went to a ten-year-old street-rat, and Bruce had been again (again) de-aged to a whole range, and at that point they'd all given up on finding the patterns and Tim had dramatically dropped his notebooks in the recycling bin in the main library.

Logic, therefore, dictated that no pattern existed and de-aging spells were all entirely random.

Except.

All the times they'd been de-aged had sent them back to one of two options: a time of peace, or a time of great stress.

So, Duke realised, the young Alfred glaring up from the floor was either one who would fight them all, or take this rather well, if the very dubious good-or-bad-no-inbetween emergent pattern could be trusted.

"Who in the name of all bloody hell are you?"

Fight response. Grand. Duke may have been newish to the family, and the only one who actually slept at night, but he did his research. He knew a little about Alfred's youth, and his early employment in the SAS or whatever, and Alfred had once commented – over strong Yorkshire Tea and ginger scones – that aside from Bruce and Jason it was in fact Duke who knew the most about those darker days. This younger, scrappier Alfred backed himself into the corner, hand darting to where his gun would have been holstered against his ribs, hiding increasing alarm behind a mask of anger.

Yellow lightning flickered in his peripherals, alerting him to Bruce's approach. Orange sparks clashed ahead and he moved with the speed Cass taught him to intercept, catching Alfred before he'd even made his feet. The (now discombobulatingly young) man was certainly a good soldier if he was moving at that speed. Bruce stood solid and immovable behind them, as he always was.

Orange once again swam in his eyes, washed-gold glowing to his left, and he let Alfred go at just the moment to send him stumbling into Cass. Within an instant they were both sat on the tiled kitchen floor.

"I'm Bruce Wayne."

Alfred looked up at Bruce dubiously. "Surgeon," he answered, shifting forward barely more than an inch before freezing as Cass lay her hand on his shoulder. After a tense second, Alfred forced himself to relax. "Where am I?"

A pause. "Gotham."

Alfred said nothing, and Duke smirked at Cass because that meant Alfred was going to stay silent in an attempt to draw out information, and whilst that was a good technique to use most of the time the very last person it work on was Bruce. He had a steel-trap jaw, held the secrets of gods and universes behind his teeth, an immovable object under every unstoppable force, including, when necessary, Alfred Pennyworth himself.

"What is 'surgeon'?" asked Cass sharply.

Alfred's eyebrow quirked. "It means I am a very good shot."

Cass' brow wrinkled. "Surgeons fix," she insisted, mouth twisted in displeasure, "Not guns."

"When that starts working, do let me know."

Heaving a sigh, Bruce waved for Cass to let Alfred up. "We can only offer you a room, you may not leave." Scowling at the implicit ultimatum, the disconcertingly young man rose slowly to his feet. There was discomfort in his eyes, fear too, yet all of it well hidden under anger and seething bitterness. Watching Cass stalk Alfred and Bruce out of the room, Duke slumped his shoulders and despaired.

If this was magic, it was no magic Duke recognised the taste of.

Alfred stared at the room he'd been offered. Tasteful, gentle, the typical sort of guest room found in a very rich household such as the one he'd found himself in. A dark old bed, tall wardrobe with an ornate key tethered to the knob with a stretch of white ribbon, a sideboard and set of drawers. The bedding looked just as old as the house itself, a thickly woven white woollen bedspread over a red-brocade quilt. Looking down, Alfred focussed on the dark planks at his feet. He shouldn't find it this hard to keep his emotions under control. Not when his whole career has been built on his ability to control himself under great stress, to keep up a stiff upper lip, to hold his hands still and hit the target through a maelstrom of emotions.

Whatever was going on, it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He didn't recognise this Bruce Wayne and his – children? It seemed they were, the vicious girl at least, probably adopted. That sort of thing did happen, even in Alfred's limited experience. What he really needed was today's local newspaper, but if he was indeed considered a prisoner under house arrest it was unlikely his 'hosts' would permit him to read one.

Certainly he wasn't in his own clothes, but they fit closely enough that movement was barely restricted. The house felt safe enough that he could even consider removing the shirt to free up the movement of his shoulders – the cable knit jumper would be fine without an underlayer. Whoever's clothes he wore had less of the young man's musculature about the shoulder, which implied that the owner of the shirt was possibly that of an older man, given the obvious strength of the three Waynes from earlier.

The buttons flicked easily between the fingers of his left hand, right hand sliding into the opening gap to trace over the old scars and recent scratches over his ribcage. Warm air drifted against his skin, gusting a little as he shrugged the shirt off to fall in a soft crumple at his heels. Against the far wall stood an old full-length mirror, the sort that hinged half-way so as to be rotated. Alfred crossed the room on silent feet to stand in front of it. A sigh escaped him at the sight of himself, as expected, the same tousled dark hair and hard eyes as ever. Twisting to his left, he squinted at the yellowing bruises staining his lower back. No pain or visible complications, check, next injury. The pink scars looked same as ever, even the newer ones, so he ignored them in favour of leaning close to asses the scabbing process of the slender scars on his chest. He'd need to ask for a first aid kit soon, or too much movement would re-break the scabbing.

As he tugged the soft jumper over his head, there came a sharp rapping on the heavy bedroom door. "What?" he barked.

The door creaked open. "Food, plasters," said the girl curtly. "For your chest." She slapped the box down on the bed and stalked back out. Alfred mused that maybe his flippant comment about guns wasn't the wisest thing he could have said, and reminded himself to ask Bruce for a newspaper – he'd seemed to be in charge.

She slammed the door shut behind her, no footsteps audible.

Should he attempt to leave the room? If he did, there was a chance he'd wind up in deeper trouble than already. On the other hand the lack of defensive weaponry was really starting to grate on his nerves, making his already high-strung awareness twitch at even the slightest sounds from the hall.

Take his life in his hands (again) and venture out it was.

Unlocked, the door opened easily, a slight creak making Alfred wince internally. Casting his eyes up and down the hall, he noted with suspicion that nobody was present watching the door: either the house had top-notch security measures, or he wasn't considered a threat. Given his experience of the skills of the two young people in the kitchen it was likely a combination of both.

"What was wrong with your shirt?"

"Jesus Christ," he yelped, startled more than he wanted to admit to himself, "Where – where did you come from?"

"Around," smirked the boy. Dark hair, dark eyes, Asian-American descent by the look of him. "I'm Tim."

Right. "Surgeon." Silence stretched between them, elastic and mildly awkward. It didn't seem likely to break any time soon – Alfred was a sniper accustomed to waiting. It also seemed Tim was planning to hold his silence too. "Where am I?"

"Gotham. Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"Too tight," he answered curtly, "I couldn't move my arms." The boy's eyes swept over the strong muscles of Alfred's forearms, up to the tattoos winding around the heavy swell of his biceps and shoulders.

"Yeah, fair enough."

In the ensuing quiet, in which the boy's eyes pierced the very felt of Alfred's stained soul, he considered his options. Retreat had never been part of the Surgeon's nature, yet pressing on in an unfamiliar house with no knowledge of his reception went against his training and the instincts ingrained by several years of service.

"Want a cuppa?"

Oh, gods yes. "If you don't mind."

Tim waved his hand – it's nothing – and turned away, padding down the hall with the deep comfort of having grown up in these halls. Cautious, the warm air brushing through his knit pullover and the twisting tattoos on his arms, Alfred followed. They descended the sweeping staircase in tandem, socks pattering on the gleaming marble and tile halls. Above what must be the heavy front door hung a huge, gold-framed dark painting of a man with dark hair and shockingly pale blue eyes – like ice.

The lad led him into the kitchen, empty and warm. "Shut the door," said Tim as he headed for the silver kettle in the corner. A four-person kitchen table, pale wood, sat against the back wall – or what Alfred would have called the back wall. Over the kitchen sink was a window looking on roses and a herb garden, a pretty lace curtain pinned up, an old dark Welsh dresser tucked between what sets of cupboards. The worktops were white tile. It was very English. He sat in the end chair, painted pastel blue, and waited.

"Whose knitting is this?"

"Oh," said Tim looking up from the kettle, "our Grandad's. He makes us jumpers and stuff, but that's a blanket." The heavy wool ran gently through Alfred's fingers, possibly an Alpaca or Angora mix, ombre gold and cream and yellow, giving the colour effect of autumn leaves. "You can do some, if you want," Tim said quietly, "The wool is in the left dresser cupboard. Needles too." He bent to dig around, pulling out a ball of purple Aran and a handful of needles. They clattered on the tabletop – Alfred glared scoldingly on impulse, surprised when Tim flushed slightly. The kettle boiled; the hot teapot was set on the wooden mat to brew. Two large mugs, decorated with stylized English cottages, were carried from the dresser, set on plain wood coasters.

"This is nice wool," said Alfred. Tim poured the tea, splashing in the milk. "It would make good gilets or waistcoats." The tea tasted like home, hot and stinging, the milk just this side of scalded, steam cooling rapidly on Alfred's forehead. Whoever had taught this boy to brew up had done it well. "You're a youngish lad. When did Bruce take you in?"

"Eh, I kind of pushed in. He was in a bad place and I could help him so I did, and I guess I just – stuck around," answered Tim contemplatively. He sipped at his tea, blowing gently to cool it. The creases around his eyes spoke of times of high stress, but his lips carried that peculiar upwards hint of laughter found in happy people who made the most of what was thrown at them. A soldier, or cadet, possibly – too young to be official military, for sure. He must only be 16 or so, barely ten years younger than Alfred. Then again, he thought cynically as he took a large mouthful of tea, it had only taken him a year to earn the title Surgeon.

Codenamed Surgeon for his pinpoint-accurate shooting and extensive knowledge of anatomy Alfred had been leading his own squad of specialists into covert missions, including assassination and spying, by the age of 24. Working up the ranks had been a matter of "shoot to kill and do it well", as the saying went, getting him to where he stood now: the best operative in the game. Unshakable, all knowing.

Alfred would admit it:

He was totally lost and confused.


End file.
